But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!

When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.

This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.